Feelin' The Funk
Okay, what's going on in my life, I've asked myself.
I'm at some sort of mental impasse. Not completely happy, not completely sad. More like completely incomplete. Does that make sense? I've got almost everything I could ever hope for. But it's that one longing that doesn't belong to any particular area in my life that seems to get me hanging up. My mind drifts to that nonsensical place where nothing really makes sense and then I think about some of the shit that my students go through. My life is peaches and cream.
As most of you intelligent and beautiful people know I'm a teacher at some stellar university in the San Francisco Bay Area. I spend half my time in the classroom and the rest runnin' thangs in some big ol' office (no windows and no vents, my office sucks balls). Part of my classroom work involves meeting with my students one-on-one for a "get to know you" session. I've found that this really does help me construct a classroom that is sensitive to where there students are coming from. After all, wouldn't you prefer to have a curriculum that is relevant to where you are coming from and what you are all about?
During my one-on-ones, anything goes. I usually ask them the generic prompt, "So, tell me about yourself..." and off we go. I've met students who have interesting lives. Actors, singers, athletes, and the like. I've also met students who have come from extreme hardship: abused as children, drug addicted, raped, suicidal. It's amazing the amount of duress that humans can undergo, but to be a student and suffer in literal silence as many of my students do, it truly does blow my mind. Working with students who are on the brink of killing themselves is tough, it's demanding to be fully present, and to kick into counseling mode requires a profound amount of inner strength in order to be "there." After one of those kinds of students, I usually crash...it's so tiring.
Today I didn't have to deal with a suicide case thank god/goddess. Instead I had a student who was seriously depressed and man, what's that title of that book, Your Blues Ain't Like Mine? I listened to the student's story, and at first it didn't unfold altogether...After some careful questions, a picture of darkness emerged, and after the session, I sat back in my chair and thought about my momentary lapse of selfishness where I thought my life wasn't coming together like it should. The student cried over the pain. I instead could just snap out of it, but for the student, years of hurt and pain does not disappear with a thought.
The student said, "I wish I could just make all of my problems just go away. I wish I could just forget all of them."
"Well," I said, "there is a way. It's called a lobotomy." We laughed. Wiping tears, the student smiled for the first time since sitting coming in. "We all wish we could make our problems go away. And something like that could make it easier. But the reality is that we have to live with our problems, they are like things we carry around with us all the time, whether or not we know it. And those things affect the way we see life," I said to her. "So the best we can do is to work through our stuff, figure out what we can work with and what we need help with. It's a matter of taking control of our lives before it takes control of us"
Indeed.
Voodoo
Voodoo Lounge v.12.1: I'm the Juggernaut, bitch!
Thursday, August 30, 2001
Tuesday, August 28, 2001
Voodoo Child Consumes Sour Milk
Yup, you've got it.
I had some lasagne, and I figured that I might as well have a dessert of cookies and milk. How cute, I know. At any rate, I reached into the fridge and grabbed one of those kid-sized milk cartons and cracked it open (after looking for the arrow that said "Open Here" because you just never know, my children). I grabbed an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie and then took a swig then noticed a most foul taste. I kept chewing maybe thinking residual lasagne sauces may have interfered with the normal heaven-like quality of cookies and milk. Ahh. Then the sourness faded away, and then we experience near-orgasmic ectasy. Thinking that the residual lasagne sauce theory was proven therefore it was safe to continue to consume cookies, I took another bite and another swig.
The theory was not only incorrect, it smote me upon my palate. Sour milk, mes amis does not taste like milk with a hint of badness, it tastes like I've just licked a battery. That is covered in shit.
Like most normal people, I dumped it out and watched for evidence of spoilage. Hey, it's cottage cheese! Yes, how nasty is that. Unlike most normal people, I left the remaining cartons in the fridge. I definitely hate throwing food out and all, but maybe I had a bad batch? Okay. So maybe I should toss them out.
I have this thing about expiration dates. I should have checked it when I opened the carton of milk, but alas, I thought nothing of it. It was August 28, so I thought this is the last possible day...but NO that day did pass, I believe some time ago. Okay, now I'm feeling really guilty about leaving the milk in there, I am going to take care of that right away. The moral of this story, Voodooites is to check the label. And to eat the cookies without the milk would be just insane. I'm going to the store.
Voodoo
Perhaps drinking sour milk is a kind of character builder?
Voodoo Update! I was wondering why there was one carton of milk open when I first got some. It turns out that Buff Bagwell tried some milk then left the opened carton there. I don't know why...to serve as a warning? He said, "Oh yeah, it tasted funny." That's what I get for not throwing away the milk when I should have. Karma is a bitch.
Yup, you've got it.
I had some lasagne, and I figured that I might as well have a dessert of cookies and milk. How cute, I know. At any rate, I reached into the fridge and grabbed one of those kid-sized milk cartons and cracked it open (after looking for the arrow that said "Open Here" because you just never know, my children). I grabbed an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie and then took a swig then noticed a most foul taste. I kept chewing maybe thinking residual lasagne sauces may have interfered with the normal heaven-like quality of cookies and milk. Ahh. Then the sourness faded away, and then we experience near-orgasmic ectasy. Thinking that the residual lasagne sauce theory was proven therefore it was safe to continue to consume cookies, I took another bite and another swig.
The theory was not only incorrect, it smote me upon my palate. Sour milk, mes amis does not taste like milk with a hint of badness, it tastes like I've just licked a battery. That is covered in shit.
Like most normal people, I dumped it out and watched for evidence of spoilage. Hey, it's cottage cheese! Yes, how nasty is that. Unlike most normal people, I left the remaining cartons in the fridge. I definitely hate throwing food out and all, but maybe I had a bad batch? Okay. So maybe I should toss them out.
I have this thing about expiration dates. I should have checked it when I opened the carton of milk, but alas, I thought nothing of it. It was August 28, so I thought this is the last possible day...but NO that day did pass, I believe some time ago. Okay, now I'm feeling really guilty about leaving the milk in there, I am going to take care of that right away. The moral of this story, Voodooites is to check the label. And to eat the cookies without the milk would be just insane. I'm going to the store.
Voodoo
Perhaps drinking sour milk is a kind of character builder?
Voodoo Update! I was wondering why there was one carton of milk open when I first got some. It turns out that Buff Bagwell tried some milk then left the opened carton there. I don't know why...to serve as a warning? He said, "Oh yeah, it tasted funny." That's what I get for not throwing away the milk when I should have. Karma is a bitch.
Monday, August 27, 2001
Letters from the Edge
In the last few days, I've received two letters from friends. Not that they were really far away and we haven't seen each other in a long time. Actually I've seen both of them quite recently. They both live here in the Bay Area, and we're quite close that way. But they did write me letters, and honestly, it really did make my day. Remember, a while ago, I wrote about having people writing letters again is quite the outdated way of communicating. Email is so much faster and easier. Save .34 cents and what not. Really, that's why the post office is so pissed off. Email is killin' em. Tsk tsk. And stop sending me those damn chain letters about some bill going through Congress. You guys!
I have since wrote them both back, and hopefully this won't stop the great exchange of letters I think will be the outcome of this. I'm a mailbox nerd, and I love to get mail. Bills, too. I suppose, are worth getting. To an extent. I mean, I love mail, but I'm not a rich chick who can just drop dolla's like that.
I didn't win powerball, and neither did you, so shut up.
I'm going to pick a random person out of my extensive phone book (all written in pencil, because if you're an asshole, I just take you out!) and send them a letter. I wonder if that might freak people out. And what's the etiquette for sending letters to friends who are married? Do I write one to both of them? Or do I write the person I was friends with first? And if it's a guy, is that a bad thing? Aw crap. No letters to ex-boyfriends. Speaking of which, someone pass me the Voodoo Eraser. He gotta go. And him too. Maybe I'll keep him ;-)
Want a letter? Send me one first.
Voodoo
In the last few days, I've received two letters from friends. Not that they were really far away and we haven't seen each other in a long time. Actually I've seen both of them quite recently. They both live here in the Bay Area, and we're quite close that way. But they did write me letters, and honestly, it really did make my day. Remember, a while ago, I wrote about having people writing letters again is quite the outdated way of communicating. Email is so much faster and easier. Save .34 cents and what not. Really, that's why the post office is so pissed off. Email is killin' em. Tsk tsk. And stop sending me those damn chain letters about some bill going through Congress. You guys!
I have since wrote them both back, and hopefully this won't stop the great exchange of letters I think will be the outcome of this. I'm a mailbox nerd, and I love to get mail. Bills, too. I suppose, are worth getting. To an extent. I mean, I love mail, but I'm not a rich chick who can just drop dolla's like that.
I didn't win powerball, and neither did you, so shut up.
I'm going to pick a random person out of my extensive phone book (all written in pencil, because if you're an asshole, I just take you out!) and send them a letter. I wonder if that might freak people out. And what's the etiquette for sending letters to friends who are married? Do I write one to both of them? Or do I write the person I was friends with first? And if it's a guy, is that a bad thing? Aw crap. No letters to ex-boyfriends. Speaking of which, someone pass me the Voodoo Eraser. He gotta go. And him too. Maybe I'll keep him ;-)
Want a letter? Send me one first.
Voodoo
Sunday, August 26, 2001
Get Away, Get Into It, Part II
I don't know if many of you remember, but I went to San Diego for GAGII, Part I a few months ago. This weekend, I went on GAGII, Part II. It was nice, and I enjoyed myself...lemme share with you all...We all know that I graduated in May, and many of you think that I've stopped my affiliation with the university as a student at that point. However, I went on a retreat that normally is attended by a lot of the students who were in my program, but this time as an alumnae. Other alumni come from around the state to be there and connect with each other (it's a reunion of sorts), and to meet the new students and offer our support and encouragement.
It's strange being on the other side of the fence, so to speak. I am somewhat jealous of the students because so much attention is doted on them, but not quite jealous of the task ahead. Some of them are just starting, and others are about to finish, and to see how much we've changed and grown over the years is truly a blessing. Coming to terms with my successes didn't really hit me until recently, and to be surrounded by the newbies and being added to the family of graduates is exciting. Being in their presence is a sort of recharging of batteries that I needed to do, and I am exhausted after a late night talking with Mami Chula and the others about life after graduating and post-dissertation.
The new kids look at you like you're a a Zen master in the middle of a storm now that you've finished. And the OG's welcome us with open arms and said, "See, it wasn't so bad afterall!" I don't know about it not being bad, but now that I'm done, I can appreciate life.
I'm about to catch up on some sleep, but in a meanwhile, recharge your batteries and talk to me about it in the morning...
VOODOO
PS: Props to the Wolf for strikin' through and giving me the opportunity to record for him. Hope it all comes together smooth...
PS2: Aaliyah, girl, Imma miss you big time, and you are a flame that was extinguished too early. The hiphop world mourns your loss but your music lives on...
I don't know if many of you remember, but I went to San Diego for GAGII, Part I a few months ago. This weekend, I went on GAGII, Part II. It was nice, and I enjoyed myself...lemme share with you all...We all know that I graduated in May, and many of you think that I've stopped my affiliation with the university as a student at that point. However, I went on a retreat that normally is attended by a lot of the students who were in my program, but this time as an alumnae. Other alumni come from around the state to be there and connect with each other (it's a reunion of sorts), and to meet the new students and offer our support and encouragement.
It's strange being on the other side of the fence, so to speak. I am somewhat jealous of the students because so much attention is doted on them, but not quite jealous of the task ahead. Some of them are just starting, and others are about to finish, and to see how much we've changed and grown over the years is truly a blessing. Coming to terms with my successes didn't really hit me until recently, and to be surrounded by the newbies and being added to the family of graduates is exciting. Being in their presence is a sort of recharging of batteries that I needed to do, and I am exhausted after a late night talking with Mami Chula and the others about life after graduating and post-dissertation.
The new kids look at you like you're a a Zen master in the middle of a storm now that you've finished. And the OG's welcome us with open arms and said, "See, it wasn't so bad afterall!" I don't know about it not being bad, but now that I'm done, I can appreciate life.
I'm about to catch up on some sleep, but in a meanwhile, recharge your batteries and talk to me about it in the morning...
VOODOO
PS: Props to the Wolf for strikin' through and giving me the opportunity to record for him. Hope it all comes together smooth...
PS2: Aaliyah, girl, Imma miss you big time, and you are a flame that was extinguished too early. The hiphop world mourns your loss but your music lives on...
Saturday, August 25, 2001
If it has more than two legs, I ain't eatin' it
The story that everyone loves to hear and is quite aghast at learning about are the reasons why I don't eat beef or pork.
First of all, I'm not a tree huggin', birkenstock wearin', teva sportin', Earth mother that just is a vegan. I happen to enjoy my Coach bags and Enzos on my feet. I also happen to appreciate eggs in the morning. Secondly, I am not Muslim/Hindu/Agnostic. I don't think cows are particularly holy, and if one stood in my way between me and a beautiful leather jacket, it's fucked. (Voodoo Note: Bet you didn't think they'd have that word in the dictionary, huh. Well, now you know.)
I don't eat beef because I noticed that everytime that I ate beef, I'd get sleepy. Abnormally sleepy. This vexed me for a while. Maybe it's because I ate a lot of beef, therefore I fell asleep. Forget it, I'm not going to even debate that one, so I cut it out of my diet.
I don't eat pork because traversing the beautiful UC Davis campus one day, I encountered the Pig Barns on a very warm and hot day. It was still heat, the kind that would make you feel as if your skin was peeling off it was so hot. Well, I rode my bike past the pig barns on the way to work, and the smell of those beasts hit me like a brick wall. The rancidness of it all just make me almost puke, not a very cute thing to do when you're in peeling hot heat and on a bike. I choked back my tears and wanted to cry. Malodorous enough that I just stopped eating pork since.
Now dont' get me wrong, I don't really miss it all that much. I only miss the late night burgers from time to time, but it's something I've learned to live without. But I tell you, I will scarf a ham sandwich if you put it in front of me. I'm weak like that. My theory is, if it has more than two feet (I'll eat chicken and fish, but not squids, calamari, octopi, lobster and the like), I won't eat it. No, I won't eat mussels or clams even though they have one foot. They live off shit from the bottom of the ocean for god's sake.
The moral of this story is that around the same time this all went down, from maybe around 1994, I also gave up fast food. It's no longer a major staple of my diet. I'm a SF Foodie, and that means why bother when you can get some primo grub at a mom and pop just down the street? My little nieces and nephew were over today, so I, at the beckoning of my mother, took them to McDonalds to get some food. A Filet of Fish later and I am experiencing some major stomach cramps and even a little bit of angst at having given in to eating crap.
I'm not very happy right now, and I'm supposed to do a recording for The Wolf's CD in a few minutes. I hope that I can hold up for a few minutes, but we'll see.
Peas and green apple splatters
Voodoo
The story that everyone loves to hear and is quite aghast at learning about are the reasons why I don't eat beef or pork.
First of all, I'm not a tree huggin', birkenstock wearin', teva sportin', Earth mother that just is a vegan. I happen to enjoy my Coach bags and Enzos on my feet. I also happen to appreciate eggs in the morning. Secondly, I am not Muslim/Hindu/Agnostic. I don't think cows are particularly holy, and if one stood in my way between me and a beautiful leather jacket, it's fucked. (Voodoo Note: Bet you didn't think they'd have that word in the dictionary, huh. Well, now you know.)
I don't eat beef because I noticed that everytime that I ate beef, I'd get sleepy. Abnormally sleepy. This vexed me for a while. Maybe it's because I ate a lot of beef, therefore I fell asleep. Forget it, I'm not going to even debate that one, so I cut it out of my diet.
I don't eat pork because traversing the beautiful UC Davis campus one day, I encountered the Pig Barns on a very warm and hot day. It was still heat, the kind that would make you feel as if your skin was peeling off it was so hot. Well, I rode my bike past the pig barns on the way to work, and the smell of those beasts hit me like a brick wall. The rancidness of it all just make me almost puke, not a very cute thing to do when you're in peeling hot heat and on a bike. I choked back my tears and wanted to cry. Malodorous enough that I just stopped eating pork since.
Now dont' get me wrong, I don't really miss it all that much. I only miss the late night burgers from time to time, but it's something I've learned to live without. But I tell you, I will scarf a ham sandwich if you put it in front of me. I'm weak like that. My theory is, if it has more than two feet (I'll eat chicken and fish, but not squids, calamari, octopi, lobster and the like), I won't eat it. No, I won't eat mussels or clams even though they have one foot. They live off shit from the bottom of the ocean for god's sake.
The moral of this story is that around the same time this all went down, from maybe around 1994, I also gave up fast food. It's no longer a major staple of my diet. I'm a SF Foodie, and that means why bother when you can get some primo grub at a mom and pop just down the street? My little nieces and nephew were over today, so I, at the beckoning of my mother, took them to McDonalds to get some food. A Filet of Fish later and I am experiencing some major stomach cramps and even a little bit of angst at having given in to eating crap.
I'm not very happy right now, and I'm supposed to do a recording for The Wolf's CD in a few minutes. I hope that I can hold up for a few minutes, but we'll see.
Peas and green apple splatters
Voodoo
Thursday, August 23, 2001
First Day of Cool
This summer I had the privilege of working with students who were what the university considered "at-risk." It was indeed a pleasure because I got to meet some very outstanding students who probably would not have made it into any top-tier school, but for whatever reason they were selected to be students at my university. It's hard working for a program that supports fully the endeavors of students such as these. A lot of advisors/faculty/staff don't back us up, and it makes for a huge challenge when it comes to stressing the importance of this program. At any rate, I could go on and on about this program, but it is a lot of work, and that's part of the reason why I worked my ass off so hard these last few weeks.
Today was the first day of instruction. A big day for all the students, especially mine, and I saw a lot of them getting ready, having breakfast, talking eagerly about things. So that was sweet. You see them when they are foolish kids when they land on campus, now they're little pimps. All dressed up and shit. Later on the semester, here come the sweats and grungy looks. I know it well. "How was it," I asked. "Your first day?"
"Oh god," they moaned. It is, after all a Catholic institution. "I already have homework." Ahh, I remember my first day well. I was anxious, nervous, and overwhelmed. They were glassy-eyed, and somewhat panic-stricken. Tomorrow is the day I start teaching. I look forward to it, it sounds like I've got a full house. Lots of things to prepare for...studying the text well, working in the pedagogy, things like that. This is the semester that I get my shit together and teach three classes. I'm looking forward to it, actually. It promises to be a lot of fun. We are going to do online learning, and that should be tight.
I am overwhelmed myself...things are moving so fast, and I wish I had some time to think, enjoy the day, but I've been running around in my windowless office, sucking in dirty air from a vent and pretending like I'm happy. It's a tough gig, but I'm maintainin', so to speak. I know this isn't all that interesting, but I'll have more to tell tomorrow, after class.
Peas,
Voodoo
This summer I had the privilege of working with students who were what the university considered "at-risk." It was indeed a pleasure because I got to meet some very outstanding students who probably would not have made it into any top-tier school, but for whatever reason they were selected to be students at my university. It's hard working for a program that supports fully the endeavors of students such as these. A lot of advisors/faculty/staff don't back us up, and it makes for a huge challenge when it comes to stressing the importance of this program. At any rate, I could go on and on about this program, but it is a lot of work, and that's part of the reason why I worked my ass off so hard these last few weeks.
Today was the first day of instruction. A big day for all the students, especially mine, and I saw a lot of them getting ready, having breakfast, talking eagerly about things. So that was sweet. You see them when they are foolish kids when they land on campus, now they're little pimps. All dressed up and shit. Later on the semester, here come the sweats and grungy looks. I know it well. "How was it," I asked. "Your first day?"
"Oh god," they moaned. It is, after all a Catholic institution. "I already have homework." Ahh, I remember my first day well. I was anxious, nervous, and overwhelmed. They were glassy-eyed, and somewhat panic-stricken. Tomorrow is the day I start teaching. I look forward to it, it sounds like I've got a full house. Lots of things to prepare for...studying the text well, working in the pedagogy, things like that. This is the semester that I get my shit together and teach three classes. I'm looking forward to it, actually. It promises to be a lot of fun. We are going to do online learning, and that should be tight.
I am overwhelmed myself...things are moving so fast, and I wish I had some time to think, enjoy the day, but I've been running around in my windowless office, sucking in dirty air from a vent and pretending like I'm happy. It's a tough gig, but I'm maintainin', so to speak. I know this isn't all that interesting, but I'll have more to tell tomorrow, after class.
Peas,
Voodoo
Wednesday, August 22, 2001
Twenty Questions plus One
- Why?
- Do you think that Puff Daddy or P. Diddy or whatever he wants to call himself is really pissed that Jennifer Lopez didn't have a remorse period?
- Does Marvin Gaye up there in heaven think Erick Sermon's appropriation of his voice is cool or what?
- Which do you go for: the long haul which could take more time to cultivate or the what you doin' tonight dude who you know will break you off but isn't really good for you?
- Can you hear the applause now that Jesse Helms is not going to run for yet another term?
- Is it the students who are failing school or the schools that are failing students?
- Which is sexier: brains or looks?
- What hurts more: outright infidelity or never knowing the truth?
- Nooners or Sunrise Sex?
- Is Snoop shiverin' in his Lugs cause Suge got plans?
- Will Barry beat 70?
- Who sucks more: Anna Nicole Smith or the Venga Boys, responsible for the "Who Let the Dogs Out"?
- Where are the cool Filipino guys who have no issues?
- Anyone want to meet up for drinks?
- Faking orgasms: necessary or mean?
- Which would you rather have: personal secretary, chauffeur, personal cook, masseuse or bodyguard?
- Which is worse: Annoying Boss or Annoying Underlings?
- Ever have a teacher in college that ya wanted to pork?
- If I ruled the world, the first rule I've have is....
- If I could change any body part, I'd change my....
- If you could do any of the above two items, that would make you God, so would you believe in yourself if that were the case?
Tuesday, August 21, 2001
The Problem with Caring
Just last week, I assigned my students to a community service project: they were to find a problem that affects their community, determine what are the social impacts that it has, and what others can do to get involved.
I am continually amazed at the quality of work that students put together under duress, and it's not because they are just crafty, they're smart to boot. Groups did research on HIV transmission rates, the amount of services provided in the Bay Area, public housing, AIDS services, and the difference between realities and perception of race.
I read their papers, and it's compassion that shows through. They really believe in a lot of their topics, and are genuinely interested in helping out. But then that interest quickly fades when the realities of helping out conflicts with busy lives, study times and a general apathy towards anything that doesn't quickly give back. The trouble with caring is that so much demands our attention and time and energy and passion, but our lives circle other important aspects (but some not too important ones either, natch!).
I want to believe that this generation of youth actually believes in the action of giving back, but I can readily see it not happening. That is, I watch their lips moving but their bodies standing still. It's painful to a point: to hear about someone taking the issue to heart but not really doing anything about it is like wanting to save the world yet not lifting a finger.
So why is this? I thought about it, maybe it's just youthful idealism that dictates behavior. Maybe it's just fulfilling an assignment given by a teacher and doing the minimal. Maybe it's just me being cynical about kids these days...I don't know. But reading students' works is truly a heart warming experience, especially if you can tell if their work is real, and sadly enough, a lot of it isn't. Reflectively speaking, from a pedagogical perspective, is it my duty to inform them of their lack of reflective process in their work? I don't know, but as long as assignments are foundationless, they will continue to reflect a weak core. Who knows. I think it's because it's 5:46 and I'm still at work, waiting for the beer to flow...
Peas,
Voodoo
Just last week, I assigned my students to a community service project: they were to find a problem that affects their community, determine what are the social impacts that it has, and what others can do to get involved.
I am continually amazed at the quality of work that students put together under duress, and it's not because they are just crafty, they're smart to boot. Groups did research on HIV transmission rates, the amount of services provided in the Bay Area, public housing, AIDS services, and the difference between realities and perception of race.
I read their papers, and it's compassion that shows through. They really believe in a lot of their topics, and are genuinely interested in helping out. But then that interest quickly fades when the realities of helping out conflicts with busy lives, study times and a general apathy towards anything that doesn't quickly give back. The trouble with caring is that so much demands our attention and time and energy and passion, but our lives circle other important aspects (but some not too important ones either, natch!).
I want to believe that this generation of youth actually believes in the action of giving back, but I can readily see it not happening. That is, I watch their lips moving but their bodies standing still. It's painful to a point: to hear about someone taking the issue to heart but not really doing anything about it is like wanting to save the world yet not lifting a finger.
So why is this? I thought about it, maybe it's just youthful idealism that dictates behavior. Maybe it's just fulfilling an assignment given by a teacher and doing the minimal. Maybe it's just me being cynical about kids these days...I don't know. But reading students' works is truly a heart warming experience, especially if you can tell if their work is real, and sadly enough, a lot of it isn't. Reflectively speaking, from a pedagogical perspective, is it my duty to inform them of their lack of reflective process in their work? I don't know, but as long as assignments are foundationless, they will continue to reflect a weak core. Who knows. I think it's because it's 5:46 and I'm still at work, waiting for the beer to flow...
Peas,
Voodoo
Monday, August 20, 2001
Misocainea: Fear of the New
This morning was the 8:30 call for the Placement Exams for all new freshmen and transfers at the University. I had 116 people under my thumb, and led them through the motions of the exams. I commandeered some student assistants to help out, and all went well. Until I spy, with my little eye, someone cheating.
I noticed early on that there was someone who was peepin' the answers of other students next to him. Leave it to the examiners to have the same damn test for each person. No variation to prevent any cheating. So this dude, is peepin' big time. The girl on his left. The guy on the right. He was staring hard, although at first I thought it was him checkin' out the major cleavage of the girl next to him. Hmm.
One of the proctors brought this to my attention. I watched him peep. I watched him stare intently.
I walked up the isle. To see it for myself a little closer.
He did it again.
I mean, really, dude, I know you're from Norway and all (he mentioned it to me earlier), and that you don't want to take this exam. Too fuckin' bad, welcome to skool, bro. Sit down, and get to work. He wasn't thrilled with the prospect of taking the exam, but shucky darn if I was going to let him cheat his way through the exam. So I finally leaned over about three people (he was four into the isle) and in the dead silence of the room, said in my mean school marm voice, "Please keep your eyes on your own paper."
Sure enough, all these heads popped up and turned around to see who was accused of cheating. He started turning dark red, and he humbly said, "Sure."
He wasn't to be accused of that later during the test, but all is well. The rest of the day went well, but I have to admit that I am still getting used to the idea of working hard. Three hours of test monitoring is just not that fun that early in the morning. Oh well, to the task at hand. As the rest of the school year kicks into high gear, I'll be ready to tell you more and more of what goes down from behind the scenes.
Keep your eyes on your webpages, my lovelies.
Voodoo
This morning was the 8:30 call for the Placement Exams for all new freshmen and transfers at the University. I had 116 people under my thumb, and led them through the motions of the exams. I commandeered some student assistants to help out, and all went well. Until I spy, with my little eye, someone cheating.
I noticed early on that there was someone who was peepin' the answers of other students next to him. Leave it to the examiners to have the same damn test for each person. No variation to prevent any cheating. So this dude, is peepin' big time. The girl on his left. The guy on the right. He was staring hard, although at first I thought it was him checkin' out the major cleavage of the girl next to him. Hmm.
One of the proctors brought this to my attention. I watched him peep. I watched him stare intently.
I walked up the isle. To see it for myself a little closer.
He did it again.
I mean, really, dude, I know you're from Norway and all (he mentioned it to me earlier), and that you don't want to take this exam. Too fuckin' bad, welcome to skool, bro. Sit down, and get to work. He wasn't thrilled with the prospect of taking the exam, but shucky darn if I was going to let him cheat his way through the exam. So I finally leaned over about three people (he was four into the isle) and in the dead silence of the room, said in my mean school marm voice, "Please keep your eyes on your own paper."
Sure enough, all these heads popped up and turned around to see who was accused of cheating. He started turning dark red, and he humbly said, "Sure."
He wasn't to be accused of that later during the test, but all is well. The rest of the day went well, but I have to admit that I am still getting used to the idea of working hard. Three hours of test monitoring is just not that fun that early in the morning. Oh well, to the task at hand. As the rest of the school year kicks into high gear, I'll be ready to tell you more and more of what goes down from behind the scenes.
Keep your eyes on your webpages, my lovelies.
Voodoo
Sunday, August 19, 2001
Full-Contact Origami
What's up, my Voodoo Chirren. Yesterday, I wanted to go out and spend some quality time doing things I wanted to do...No worrying about standing in line, being surrounded by funky people, having to impress anyone, etc. As of late, I've just wanted to make some connection with people in a real way, but I've been seriously disappointed. But I gotta say, don't be emailing me and asking me if I'm writing about you. I assure you, it's not you, it's me. How many times have I heard that...anyways, I've been trying to chill with folks, but to no avail, here we are, and I get into my car, and head up to St. Helena.
Some of you might know where St. Helena is. I bet a ton of you don't, and that's all gravy. Cause it's kinda far, about a hour and some minutes out of San Francisco. Now add to that the ridiculous amount of traffic that I ran into and almost double that time. I wrote my directions wrong, of course, and that not only added to my time, but it added to my ego deflation as getting lost is something I am not known for. I went on this sojourn to get some space to myself, hang out and get some vino that I love. In a few days, I'm going to be in virtual hell as the students come soaring back onto campus and back into my hair. I wish there was a way for the students to come subtle-like and not holla at me all at once (believe me, it does happen like that).
So getting into the Altima of Love, I headed north with great intention and gusto, an empty stomach waiting to be filled and a mind needing to be emptied.
The whole zen of the situation is to be in the moment and not worry about tomorrow, yesterday or anyone for that matter, and to just enjoy the trip instead of worrying about the end point, which was to be the Coach Outlet. It's not easy to do, but something that I had to learn early in life because going to Davis meant hours of being stuck in traffic sometimes, and it also means being able to appreciate the markers at the side of the road instead of focusing on how many miles were left in my journey. Buff Bagwell and I have been stuck in traffic many a day, and he always seems to get a bit heated during those trips, but myself I dont' mind it one bit. It might be stressful, but why stress over it when 1) there's little that you can do about it, and 2) you can just enjoy the fact that you're anywhere to begin with. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat as needed. And calm the fuck down too.
Getting into St. Helena means driving through Sonoma and by many wineries. Famous names: Beaulieu Vineyards (BV), Domaine Chandon (wonderful champagne), Gloria Ferrer (more champagne), Peju Province Winery, Robert Mondavi, to name a few. In the distance the fields seem to flicker with sparks, and I'm not sure why, but it looks beautiful. I am there to go to V. Sattui, my favorite vineyard because of their Gamay Rouge, and their weekend BBQ's. A college friend of mine, Number 1, got married there, and it was there that he looked at me with dread and fear in his face as he was to meet his bride. I whispered to him"Whenever you're ready, just give me the signal and my car is right there and we're outta here." He never gave me the signal, and as far as I know, he's all good to go, congrats Number 1. I parked my car in the back inbetween the vines (really), and strolled through the wonderful heat to the deli. I got in line to buy a grilled salmon sandwich, and that was a little too long for me, so I went indoors, bought my famous dry salami, Affrige brie cheese and cracker combo, a cold bottle of Orangina and two bottles of Gamay Rouge, and a bottle of Muscat. I called World of Curls to advise her to call me if she was in the market for a bottle. I paid and then found a spot under a tree, whipped out my big ass book and started to read and enjoy munch. That's lunch that tastes soooo good. Since I was hogging up an entire picnic table to myself, I thought I'd make some room for others to share this wonderful spot. Sure enough some homegirls from Newark joined me, and asked me about locations to dance in San Francisco. I informed them of some key locations and we chat. All is well. "Everyone in the Bay Area sure is nice," one of them told me. "Beats LA." They were from LA, poor dolls. Well, welcome to a nice way of life in the Bay.
I finished up my meal, and then trucked back into the store to buy Ms. World of Curls a bottle of Muscat, flirted shamelessly with David, the counter boy, and went back into the vineyard/parking lot. I drove north a few more miles to the Coach outlet. While we're on the topic, I know a lot of girls who were out there to get theirs, and that even means puttin' in some work (read: doin' stuff they don't have to but feel they need to in order to get theirs), in order to get their material reward. Yes, the Coach Bag. The sign that you made it, and the sign that you've come a long way, and that someone cares enough about you to buy you one. I got one from someone who felt that way about me. I know lots of girls who got one too. But I hardly ever hear of anyone buying one for themselves. Maybe because they are expensive, and they are. I'm not going to lie to you.
I walked into that store and left with three bags.
One for my mother, who as you might as well figure I adore with my entire being, and yes, two, count 'em, two for myself. And a wallet. And a cell phone case. Figure out how much I spent. You might call me excessive, but damn, why wait for someone to reward you for something when you can get it yourself. And get it I did.
Like my dentist said, "Floss every day."
Indeed.
Voodoo
What's up, my Voodoo Chirren. Yesterday, I wanted to go out and spend some quality time doing things I wanted to do...No worrying about standing in line, being surrounded by funky people, having to impress anyone, etc. As of late, I've just wanted to make some connection with people in a real way, but I've been seriously disappointed. But I gotta say, don't be emailing me and asking me if I'm writing about you. I assure you, it's not you, it's me. How many times have I heard that...anyways, I've been trying to chill with folks, but to no avail, here we are, and I get into my car, and head up to St. Helena.
Some of you might know where St. Helena is. I bet a ton of you don't, and that's all gravy. Cause it's kinda far, about a hour and some minutes out of San Francisco. Now add to that the ridiculous amount of traffic that I ran into and almost double that time. I wrote my directions wrong, of course, and that not only added to my time, but it added to my ego deflation as getting lost is something I am not known for. I went on this sojourn to get some space to myself, hang out and get some vino that I love. In a few days, I'm going to be in virtual hell as the students come soaring back onto campus and back into my hair. I wish there was a way for the students to come subtle-like and not holla at me all at once (believe me, it does happen like that).
So getting into the Altima of Love, I headed north with great intention and gusto, an empty stomach waiting to be filled and a mind needing to be emptied.
The whole zen of the situation is to be in the moment and not worry about tomorrow, yesterday or anyone for that matter, and to just enjoy the trip instead of worrying about the end point, which was to be the Coach Outlet. It's not easy to do, but something that I had to learn early in life because going to Davis meant hours of being stuck in traffic sometimes, and it also means being able to appreciate the markers at the side of the road instead of focusing on how many miles were left in my journey. Buff Bagwell and I have been stuck in traffic many a day, and he always seems to get a bit heated during those trips, but myself I dont' mind it one bit. It might be stressful, but why stress over it when 1) there's little that you can do about it, and 2) you can just enjoy the fact that you're anywhere to begin with. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat as needed. And calm the fuck down too.
Getting into St. Helena means driving through Sonoma and by many wineries. Famous names: Beaulieu Vineyards (BV), Domaine Chandon (wonderful champagne), Gloria Ferrer (more champagne), Peju Province Winery, Robert Mondavi, to name a few. In the distance the fields seem to flicker with sparks, and I'm not sure why, but it looks beautiful. I am there to go to V. Sattui, my favorite vineyard because of their Gamay Rouge, and their weekend BBQ's. A college friend of mine, Number 1, got married there, and it was there that he looked at me with dread and fear in his face as he was to meet his bride. I whispered to him"Whenever you're ready, just give me the signal and my car is right there and we're outta here." He never gave me the signal, and as far as I know, he's all good to go, congrats Number 1. I parked my car in the back inbetween the vines (really), and strolled through the wonderful heat to the deli. I got in line to buy a grilled salmon sandwich, and that was a little too long for me, so I went indoors, bought my famous dry salami, Affrige brie cheese and cracker combo, a cold bottle of Orangina and two bottles of Gamay Rouge, and a bottle of Muscat. I called World of Curls to advise her to call me if she was in the market for a bottle. I paid and then found a spot under a tree, whipped out my big ass book and started to read and enjoy munch. That's lunch that tastes soooo good. Since I was hogging up an entire picnic table to myself, I thought I'd make some room for others to share this wonderful spot. Sure enough some homegirls from Newark joined me, and asked me about locations to dance in San Francisco. I informed them of some key locations and we chat. All is well. "Everyone in the Bay Area sure is nice," one of them told me. "Beats LA." They were from LA, poor dolls. Well, welcome to a nice way of life in the Bay.
I finished up my meal, and then trucked back into the store to buy Ms. World of Curls a bottle of Muscat, flirted shamelessly with David, the counter boy, and went back into the vineyard/parking lot. I drove north a few more miles to the Coach outlet. While we're on the topic, I know a lot of girls who were out there to get theirs, and that even means puttin' in some work (read: doin' stuff they don't have to but feel they need to in order to get theirs), in order to get their material reward. Yes, the Coach Bag. The sign that you made it, and the sign that you've come a long way, and that someone cares enough about you to buy you one. I got one from someone who felt that way about me. I know lots of girls who got one too. But I hardly ever hear of anyone buying one for themselves. Maybe because they are expensive, and they are. I'm not going to lie to you.
I walked into that store and left with three bags.
One for my mother, who as you might as well figure I adore with my entire being, and yes, two, count 'em, two for myself. And a wallet. And a cell phone case. Figure out how much I spent. You might call me excessive, but damn, why wait for someone to reward you for something when you can get it yourself. And get it I did.
Like my dentist said, "Floss every day."
Indeed.
Voodoo
Saturday, August 18, 2001
I Slept with the Nickleback, the Insecurity Guard, and the Jihad
You may or may not have noticed my penchant for the nickname. I love nicknames. I don't know quite why, but I really do. Well, one of the reasons, as the Cynical One says, is to talk about someone purposely in their face without them ever knowing it or to talk about them in the presence of others who don't really need to know who I'm talking about. But, my lovelies, I assure you that you already know what your nickname, so I would never, ever try to bash your good names in public.
Most of the good nicknames are for boyfriends or men I've dated along the way. Each gets assigned a nickname that best suits his attributes (Stupid Ass) or just makes sense (Five years younger=Nickleback). Insecurity Guard was, well, insecure to a fault. Jihad was a guy who converted to the Muslim faith after we broke up. I mean turban, robes and long beard and all. Holy shit was that funny.
Everything But Sex, is pretty self-explanatory. Malcolm X's Mini Me was this guy from college who was just like Malcolm X except for a major height difference. About seeing eye to eye? That's not cute at ALL. Sprint was a guy who I was slightly related to who I didn't particularly like all that much, but he was always callin' me AND he made me want to run away every time I saw him.
The Quarterback was 4 years younger than me, and built like a quarterback. **thinking a moment...sighing...snapping back...whoa**
The Marrying Kind was quite a tragedy, someone who was down for me, and wanted to get married and all, but I was too busy getting to know some other guys on campus to settle down. Tortuous today because he's so damn fine. And I see him everywhere. It's God's way of telling me you really fucked up on this one.
There was Cheating Son of a Bitch, who I think you might have figured out why I thought of that name.
Oh yah, there was the Closer, (as you can tell I like sports-related nicknames) who was the "One." Yes, the One. Too bad he liked to load 'em up and then send 'em around.
Okay children, it's time for your Queen Mother to head out. On the search for the Franchise Player. On the lookout for the Chosen One. Peepin' da scene for the Beer Can. If you can figure out the last one, I'll send you a prize.
Voodoo
You may or may not have noticed my penchant for the nickname. I love nicknames. I don't know quite why, but I really do. Well, one of the reasons, as the Cynical One says, is to talk about someone purposely in their face without them ever knowing it or to talk about them in the presence of others who don't really need to know who I'm talking about. But, my lovelies, I assure you that you already know what your nickname, so I would never, ever try to bash your good names in public.
Most of the good nicknames are for boyfriends or men I've dated along the way. Each gets assigned a nickname that best suits his attributes (Stupid Ass) or just makes sense (Five years younger=Nickleback). Insecurity Guard was, well, insecure to a fault. Jihad was a guy who converted to the Muslim faith after we broke up. I mean turban, robes and long beard and all. Holy shit was that funny.
Everything But Sex, is pretty self-explanatory. Malcolm X's Mini Me was this guy from college who was just like Malcolm X except for a major height difference. About seeing eye to eye? That's not cute at ALL. Sprint was a guy who I was slightly related to who I didn't particularly like all that much, but he was always callin' me AND he made me want to run away every time I saw him.
The Quarterback was 4 years younger than me, and built like a quarterback. **thinking a moment...sighing...snapping back...whoa**
The Marrying Kind was quite a tragedy, someone who was down for me, and wanted to get married and all, but I was too busy getting to know some other guys on campus to settle down. Tortuous today because he's so damn fine. And I see him everywhere. It's God's way of telling me you really fucked up on this one.
There was Cheating Son of a Bitch, who I think you might have figured out why I thought of that name.
Oh yah, there was the Closer, (as you can tell I like sports-related nicknames) who was the "One." Yes, the One. Too bad he liked to load 'em up and then send 'em around.
Okay children, it's time for your Queen Mother to head out. On the search for the Franchise Player. On the lookout for the Chosen One. Peepin' da scene for the Beer Can. If you can figure out the last one, I'll send you a prize.
Voodoo
Friday, August 17, 2001
30 HARSH THINGS A WOMAN CAN SAY TO A NAKED MAN
1. I've smoked fatter joints than that.
2. Ahhhh, it's cute.
3. Why don't we just cuddle?
4. You know they have surgery to fix that.
5. Make it dance.
6. Can I paint a smiley face on it?
7. Wow, and your feet are so big.
8. It's OK, we'll work around it.
9. Will it squeak if I squeeze it?
10. Oh no... a flash headache.
11. (giggle and point)
12. Can I be honest with you?
13. How sweet, you brought incense.
14. This explains your car.
15. Maybe if we water it, it'll grow.
16. Why is God punishing me?
17. At least this won't take long.
18. I never saw one like that before.
19. But it still works, right?
20. It looks so unused.
21. Maybe it looks better in natural light.
22. Why don't we skip right to the cigarettes?
23. Are you cold?
24. If you get me real drunk first.....
25. Is that an optical illusion?
26. What is that?
27. It's a good thing you have so many other talents.
28. Does it come with an air pump?
29. So this is why you're supposed to judge people on personality.
30. I guess this makes me the 'early bird'.
No, I didn't write the above, but allow me to add:
31. 9 inches my ASS!
32. Wait until I tell my girlfriends this!
33. I'm being punished for a former life.
34. My cell phone is bigger than that.
35. Gee thanks for that good laugh, I feel so much better.
Voodoo sez I'm out!
1. I've smoked fatter joints than that.
2. Ahhhh, it's cute.
3. Why don't we just cuddle?
4. You know they have surgery to fix that.
5. Make it dance.
6. Can I paint a smiley face on it?
7. Wow, and your feet are so big.
8. It's OK, we'll work around it.
9. Will it squeak if I squeeze it?
10. Oh no... a flash headache.
11. (giggle and point)
12. Can I be honest with you?
13. How sweet, you brought incense.
14. This explains your car.
15. Maybe if we water it, it'll grow.
16. Why is God punishing me?
17. At least this won't take long.
18. I never saw one like that before.
19. But it still works, right?
20. It looks so unused.
21. Maybe it looks better in natural light.
22. Why don't we skip right to the cigarettes?
23. Are you cold?
24. If you get me real drunk first.....
25. Is that an optical illusion?
26. What is that?
27. It's a good thing you have so many other talents.
28. Does it come with an air pump?
29. So this is why you're supposed to judge people on personality.
30. I guess this makes me the 'early bird'.
No, I didn't write the above, but allow me to add:
31. 9 inches my ASS!
32. Wait until I tell my girlfriends this!
33. I'm being punished for a former life.
34. My cell phone is bigger than that.
35. Gee thanks for that good laugh, I feel so much better.
Voodoo sez I'm out!
Thursday, August 16, 2001
I can't be anally retentive if I don't have an anus.
I am a fan of movies. I like to watch movies over and over again to pick up the little subtle parts. A twitch here and there. You can sometimes see people mouthing their lines. Maybe a missing lightswitch here and there. Shit like that. Then you watch movies over and over again to figure out the good lines. I have to admit that I like the cheesiest of movies because of this one thing. Wacky lines that serve no purpose other than to make people say, "I heard that before. But I don't know where."
Major League. Yes, the entire series. I love those movies. Why? Because you don't get, "How's your wife and my kids?" from nowhere. I mean really, that's classic. I'm watching Dogma right now. Home of most excellent quotes such as, "I feel like I'm Han Solo, and you're Chewie, and she's Ben Kenobi, and we're in that fucked-up bar." Excellent.
How about Jurassic Park? "The complete lack of humility for nature that's being displayed here is staggering" and my personal favorite, "The only one on my side is the bloodsucking lawyer." I smirk with such happiness. "Yes but when the Pirates of the Caribbean breaks down, the pirates don't eat the tourists."
The Force is strong in this one. Indeed.
All every woman really wants, be it mother, senator, nun, is some serious deep-dickin'. Yah, and?
Do you think Mr. Fantastic can stretch his dinky also? And do you think The Thing is hard all over? I mean really all over.
Kevin Smith, you genius.
Voodoo
I am a fan of movies. I like to watch movies over and over again to pick up the little subtle parts. A twitch here and there. You can sometimes see people mouthing their lines. Maybe a missing lightswitch here and there. Shit like that. Then you watch movies over and over again to figure out the good lines. I have to admit that I like the cheesiest of movies because of this one thing. Wacky lines that serve no purpose other than to make people say, "I heard that before. But I don't know where."
Major League. Yes, the entire series. I love those movies. Why? Because you don't get, "How's your wife and my kids?" from nowhere. I mean really, that's classic. I'm watching Dogma right now. Home of most excellent quotes such as, "I feel like I'm Han Solo, and you're Chewie, and she's Ben Kenobi, and we're in that fucked-up bar." Excellent.
How about Jurassic Park? "The complete lack of humility for nature that's being displayed here is staggering" and my personal favorite, "The only one on my side is the bloodsucking lawyer." I smirk with such happiness. "Yes but when the Pirates of the Caribbean breaks down, the pirates don't eat the tourists."
The Force is strong in this one. Indeed.
All every woman really wants, be it mother, senator, nun, is some serious deep-dickin'. Yah, and?
Do you think Mr. Fantastic can stretch his dinky also? And do you think The Thing is hard all over? I mean really all over.
Kevin Smith, you genius.
Voodoo
Wednesday, August 15, 2001
Death Strikes Home
I came home yesterday and watched the fish swim in my 45 gallon tank. I searched for all the fish, and I knew that some were hiding in the hollow plastic rock thing I bought. I didn't notice anything wrong, and then I walked away. I peered at the filter which appeared to have a low intake. I let it slide, and figured, sometimes the water just doesn't filter through fast enough. I let it go.
I checked the filter.
And found Tiny Tim, the smallest fish of them all, curled up, stuck in the filter.
Don't get me wrong, he's expendable, I'm not weeping horribly over this loss. It sucks, yes, but to find him in this horrid death, sucked into a candy cane shaped black tube to be met by a propellor and stuck there is a pretty shitty way to die. I mean, my bad, I didn't put the cap on the tube that may have saved his tiny silver and black body from death. Oh crickey. Into the toilet you go.
Maybe I didn't pay enough attention. Maybe I didn't think to look hard enough or didn't care to put the cap on the tube that would have caught any fish.
Sigh.
Well, he's now with Neptune. Swirling away in the big toilet in the sky.
Voodoo
PS: The new banner okay?
I came home yesterday and watched the fish swim in my 45 gallon tank. I searched for all the fish, and I knew that some were hiding in the hollow plastic rock thing I bought. I didn't notice anything wrong, and then I walked away. I peered at the filter which appeared to have a low intake. I let it slide, and figured, sometimes the water just doesn't filter through fast enough. I let it go.
I checked the filter.
And found Tiny Tim, the smallest fish of them all, curled up, stuck in the filter.
Don't get me wrong, he's expendable, I'm not weeping horribly over this loss. It sucks, yes, but to find him in this horrid death, sucked into a candy cane shaped black tube to be met by a propellor and stuck there is a pretty shitty way to die. I mean, my bad, I didn't put the cap on the tube that may have saved his tiny silver and black body from death. Oh crickey. Into the toilet you go.
Maybe I didn't pay enough attention. Maybe I didn't think to look hard enough or didn't care to put the cap on the tube that would have caught any fish.
Sigh.
Well, he's now with Neptune. Swirling away in the big toilet in the sky.
Voodoo
PS: The new banner okay?
Tuesday, August 14, 2001
Note Bene
Some of my readers have remarked that my writings have been getting a little shorter these last few days. I might even have skipped a day or two somewhere. It's because my students are now back and I'm teaching and running a program. I've been extremely busy as of late, and not able to fulfill my responsibilities as your Voodoo Priestess. I wish to convey my apologies, and assure you all that I'll be up and running with the usual dose of crankiness in a few days, maybe weeks.
The floggings will continue until morale has improved.
Voodoo
Some of my readers have remarked that my writings have been getting a little shorter these last few days. I might even have skipped a day or two somewhere. It's because my students are now back and I'm teaching and running a program. I've been extremely busy as of late, and not able to fulfill my responsibilities as your Voodoo Priestess. I wish to convey my apologies, and assure you all that I'll be up and running with the usual dose of crankiness in a few days, maybe weeks.
The floggings will continue until morale has improved.
Voodoo
The Voodoo Summer Reading List
I have been reading many books this summer. It's not a secret that I'm a bookworm, and am perfectly happy with a good book to read. This is the list so far (after Barcelona's 3 book spree):
In a life preoccupied by speed, but trying to get things faster, and done easier, it's nice to be able to sit down and appreciate a good book. It's peaceful, it's low-calorie, and not against any virtue. Depending on what you're reading, of course. But sitting down with a good book is quite heavenly. A lot of the Voodoo Crew aren't too much into reading books, although many of my books have been known to go on vacation to their houses. We're all busy folks, and reading a book in the evening is not all that appealing, I suppose. It's easier to head out to the Dreamcast, etc. No disrespect, ya'll, but it's all gravy. We just do thangs differently.
What's the last thing you read?
Voodoo
When you have chosen your part, abide by it and do not weakly try to reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the common, nor the common the heroic. . . Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age. --Emerson, "Heroism" (1841)
I have been reading many books this summer. It's not a secret that I'm a bookworm, and am perfectly happy with a good book to read. This is the list so far (after Barcelona's 3 book spree):
- Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris: If you've ever learned a foreign language, or been to France, I think you'd appreciate this book. Short stories that made me laugh about how Americans are viewed in France.
- Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk: If you liked the movie, get the book. It's even better. Yes, better. Sticking feathers in your ass does not make you a chicken. Indeed.
- The Royal Family, William T. Vollman: I'm in the middle of this BIG ASS BOOK. 780 pages are not for the weak of heart. But I tell you this is ONE interesting read. It's kept me enthralled and racing to come home to catch up with the interesting characters. Prostitutes, Vegas, and San Francisco. Check it out.
In a life preoccupied by speed, but trying to get things faster, and done easier, it's nice to be able to sit down and appreciate a good book. It's peaceful, it's low-calorie, and not against any virtue. Depending on what you're reading, of course. But sitting down with a good book is quite heavenly. A lot of the Voodoo Crew aren't too much into reading books, although many of my books have been known to go on vacation to their houses. We're all busy folks, and reading a book in the evening is not all that appealing, I suppose. It's easier to head out to the Dreamcast, etc. No disrespect, ya'll, but it's all gravy. We just do thangs differently.
What's the last thing you read?
Voodoo
Monday, August 13, 2001
Everyone, stare at your pinkie
NOW CUT THAT MUTHAFUCKA OFF.
Yes, my Voodoo Babies, if you feel you got some beef, and you're really mad, say at your boss, CUT THAT MUTHAFUCKA. No, this isn't pre-menstrual rage, this is South Korean protestors chopping off that important appendage because Japanese textbooks gloss over the atrocities of WWII. Now, they chanted "We are against the shrine visit, we are against the textbooks." And then sliced off their pinkie tip and wrapped it in a swatch of the Korean flag, and then gathered the tips and threw them into another flag. All on TV, too. Here's a snapshot.
Now, I totally understand the need for protest, and the right that we all have to our opinions and points of view. IT is important that we fight against that which we feel has wronged us and our names, but choppin' off that pinky tip is kinda rough.
But let me say this, next time you have a complaint about something, don't sit there and bitch about it. I give major props to our pinky-tipless S. Korean brothas for standing up for what they believe in. So quit your petty whining, and do something about it. You might not chop something valuable off, but whining doesn't cut it. Pun intended?
Vudu
NOW CUT THAT MUTHAFUCKA OFF.
Yes, my Voodoo Babies, if you feel you got some beef, and you're really mad, say at your boss, CUT THAT MUTHAFUCKA. No, this isn't pre-menstrual rage, this is South Korean protestors chopping off that important appendage because Japanese textbooks gloss over the atrocities of WWII. Now, they chanted "We are against the shrine visit, we are against the textbooks." And then sliced off their pinkie tip and wrapped it in a swatch of the Korean flag, and then gathered the tips and threw them into another flag. All on TV, too. Here's a snapshot.
Now, I totally understand the need for protest, and the right that we all have to our opinions and points of view. IT is important that we fight against that which we feel has wronged us and our names, but choppin' off that pinky tip is kinda rough.
But let me say this, next time you have a complaint about something, don't sit there and bitch about it. I give major props to our pinky-tipless S. Korean brothas for standing up for what they believe in. So quit your petty whining, and do something about it. You might not chop something valuable off, but whining doesn't cut it. Pun intended?
Vudu
Must..Strangle...Everyone
For one day, just one day, I want all men to experience menstrual cramps. Yes, okay you can also want us to experience a kick to the nuts, as my boss sed, but at least, as I curtly replied, at least you can see the kick coming.
I am currently experiencing massive cramps of epic proportion. Imagine a tummy ache. Scoot that down below your belly button and induce pain. Sore back. Hunch over. Fetal position. Ahh, that's much better. I feel like screaming, but since I'm at work, I have to be a little nicer and just smile while my uterus is turning into a raging organ of aching pain. Now let it be said, my beautiful Voodoo Babies, this doesn't feel very nice, but for me, this only lasts about three solid hours. Some women have it for the whole day. And yes, some women have it their whole lives (be nice, i'm only joking).
The glories of womanhood. As a child, you grow up hearing about "The Curse" or "Auntie Flo(w) coming to visit." Well, damn her and curse her out too while we're at it, this shit really hurts! It's not all wonderful and flowery feeling to experience this time in your life, but if you didn't feel it, you must be somewhat concerned that you just might be pregnant. In my case, it would definitely have to be the second coming of Jesus Christ, because this uterus hasn't seen any action in the last few months. Unless you want to count the fluttering it felt at the sight of the LA Galaxy, but then again, can you blame it?
Okay, I'm going to double over in pain now. And what's even worse, is that I have a meeting at 5:15 where sunshine is on order ;-)
Best wishes for a happy uterus,
Voodoo
For one day, just one day, I want all men to experience menstrual cramps. Yes, okay you can also want us to experience a kick to the nuts, as my boss sed, but at least, as I curtly replied, at least you can see the kick coming.
I am currently experiencing massive cramps of epic proportion. Imagine a tummy ache. Scoot that down below your belly button and induce pain. Sore back. Hunch over. Fetal position. Ahh, that's much better. I feel like screaming, but since I'm at work, I have to be a little nicer and just smile while my uterus is turning into a raging organ of aching pain. Now let it be said, my beautiful Voodoo Babies, this doesn't feel very nice, but for me, this only lasts about three solid hours. Some women have it for the whole day. And yes, some women have it their whole lives (be nice, i'm only joking).
The glories of womanhood. As a child, you grow up hearing about "The Curse" or "Auntie Flo(w) coming to visit." Well, damn her and curse her out too while we're at it, this shit really hurts! It's not all wonderful and flowery feeling to experience this time in your life, but if you didn't feel it, you must be somewhat concerned that you just might be pregnant. In my case, it would definitely have to be the second coming of Jesus Christ, because this uterus hasn't seen any action in the last few months. Unless you want to count the fluttering it felt at the sight of the LA Galaxy, but then again, can you blame it?
Okay, I'm going to double over in pain now. And what's even worse, is that I have a meeting at 5:15 where sunshine is on order ;-)
Best wishes for a happy uterus,
Voodoo
Sunday, August 12, 2001
Dia de los Losers
This morning, I went to a sale that promised items for 50 and even 80 per cent off!
That's all and well, but if there ain't shit worth standing in line for an hour and a half, it really doesn't matter now, does it.
At any rate, I did walk away with some materials I need for making books, so I'm happy about that. But an hour and a half, sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing ;-)
I went to the Pistahan, which is the Filipino Arts Exposition in Yerba Buena Gardens. It was cool to kick it for a little. Going to Filipino Fiesta type things are great, I love going to them. Get immersed in your culture and see all those folks you forgot about in college and the like and then remember why you didn't really keep in touch over the years. You also see a lot of weirdness like Back Pain solution people and other trinket shit being sold there....Like that has anything to do with Filipino culture. More like commercialism. Oh well, bills gotta get paid. Hewwo to WOrld of Curls and Tiny Timmette.
Tonight fared better as I went out with The Apostle and Shakespeare. Shot pool, but mostly sucked at it. I got peeped by Habib. Not cute. I felt...like I did in Spain, not a good thing! I am bereft of things to write about, so this boring prattle will have to do for now. I remain, ever yours,
The Voodoo Child.
This morning, I went to a sale that promised items for 50 and even 80 per cent off!
That's all and well, but if there ain't shit worth standing in line for an hour and a half, it really doesn't matter now, does it.
At any rate, I did walk away with some materials I need for making books, so I'm happy about that. But an hour and a half, sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing ;-)
I went to the Pistahan, which is the Filipino Arts Exposition in Yerba Buena Gardens. It was cool to kick it for a little. Going to Filipino Fiesta type things are great, I love going to them. Get immersed in your culture and see all those folks you forgot about in college and the like and then remember why you didn't really keep in touch over the years. You also see a lot of weirdness like Back Pain solution people and other trinket shit being sold there....Like that has anything to do with Filipino culture. More like commercialism. Oh well, bills gotta get paid. Hewwo to WOrld of Curls and Tiny Timmette.
Tonight fared better as I went out with The Apostle and Shakespeare. Shot pool, but mostly sucked at it. I got peeped by Habib. Not cute. I felt...like I did in Spain, not a good thing! I am bereft of things to write about, so this boring prattle will have to do for now. I remain, ever yours,
The Voodoo Child.
Saturday, August 11, 2001
Yankees Suck
Sorry, I have that phrase stuck in my head. I went to see the Oakland Athletics v. the New York Yankees. Quite an interesting game, I wasn't really invested in either team, and I could have cared less if one team and the other lost. I was invited by a friend, the Singapore Sling, to watch the game, so never one to turn down a free athletic event which is sure to be teeming with men, off I went. After work. Without my nap. I'm a little tired, and I'm going to bed soon.
But the fun thing about baseball games is that they are exciting to watch to those who know what's going on and what's at stake. They're an interesting blend of drunken stupor, bad food, and people bringing weird instruments to show just how much they love (or hate) their team. Nothing of great interest happened during the game, other than it was "Asian Community Night." I was expecting the place to be chock full of cute Asian boys to peruse, however, that was not to happen. Just a Lion Dance before the National Anthem. Damn, tokenized again.
The A's kicked the Yankee's flat little butts. I got to see David Justice, Derek Jeter. I lusted madly, but such is life at the ballpark. Futile efforts at leading the entire stadium in the "wave." 45 minutes to get out of the parking lot. Standing up everytime some ass had to go get some beer or use the bathroom.
Thank god for Pac Bell Park. Now that's baseball.
Voodoo
Sorry, I have that phrase stuck in my head. I went to see the Oakland Athletics v. the New York Yankees. Quite an interesting game, I wasn't really invested in either team, and I could have cared less if one team and the other lost. I was invited by a friend, the Singapore Sling, to watch the game, so never one to turn down a free athletic event which is sure to be teeming with men, off I went. After work. Without my nap. I'm a little tired, and I'm going to bed soon.
But the fun thing about baseball games is that they are exciting to watch to those who know what's going on and what's at stake. They're an interesting blend of drunken stupor, bad food, and people bringing weird instruments to show just how much they love (or hate) their team. Nothing of great interest happened during the game, other than it was "Asian Community Night." I was expecting the place to be chock full of cute Asian boys to peruse, however, that was not to happen. Just a Lion Dance before the National Anthem. Damn, tokenized again.
The A's kicked the Yankee's flat little butts. I got to see David Justice, Derek Jeter. I lusted madly, but such is life at the ballpark. Futile efforts at leading the entire stadium in the "wave." 45 minutes to get out of the parking lot. Standing up everytime some ass had to go get some beer or use the bathroom.
Thank god for Pac Bell Park. Now that's baseball.
Voodoo
Friday, August 10, 2001
Afternoon Naps
When I was in Barcelona, I used to think, man, why the hell is everything closed during the hectic part of the day?
It's siesta time.
Now, think about it: the work day is a little longer, say until 8PM, but for 3 or 4 hours, from 1-4 or 5, in the afternoon, it's chill time. Close up shop and go chill at home, break off your bf or gf, maybe even take a well-deserved nap. It's an interesting concept, but I don't think it'll fly too much over here. If you've ever been to Europe, or the rest of the world for that matter, you notice that time has a different feel or a different concept. There is a finite sense of where you have to be at certain times, but the pacing of life is different. In France, my dinners took about 2 hours. In Spain, there is that down time, and during the dusk hours, everyone is doing their paseo.
Here, it's bidness non-stop, 8-5. Then financial districts become ghost towns, you can see a tumbleweed rollin', can't you. I don't know about you, but I'm more productive after a nap. There's no sense in crammin' your ass so hard for hours on end, and then by the end of the day you're exhausted. I'd rather break it up, take some time off and then go back to the task at hand. But then again, that's just me. I'm used to my afternoon naps when I get home from work. Pass out for a bit, and then I'm good to go for the rest of the evening. I sometimes get out of hand and pass out for three hours, and then, lie now, I'm awake until 1AM. Not good.
But naps have a lot going for them. I don't see them being used anytime soon in American society, but until then, I can sneak a nap in here and there, just make sure that you get your alarm to go off in 15 minutes or so, lest you miss your meetings and simply miss your day. I've done it before, and luckily for my students, this worked out to be a good proposition. I wasn't cranky or sleepy during session.
So when I become president, you can expect a mandate that people take naps. Maybe it'll make us all nicer to each other. Or at least slow down this fast paced life of ours into something more humane.
That's my five cents. Cause with inflation and all, two cents just don't cut it.
Voodoo
When I was in Barcelona, I used to think, man, why the hell is everything closed during the hectic part of the day?
It's siesta time.
Now, think about it: the work day is a little longer, say until 8PM, but for 3 or 4 hours, from 1-4 or 5, in the afternoon, it's chill time. Close up shop and go chill at home, break off your bf or gf, maybe even take a well-deserved nap. It's an interesting concept, but I don't think it'll fly too much over here. If you've ever been to Europe, or the rest of the world for that matter, you notice that time has a different feel or a different concept. There is a finite sense of where you have to be at certain times, but the pacing of life is different. In France, my dinners took about 2 hours. In Spain, there is that down time, and during the dusk hours, everyone is doing their paseo.
Here, it's bidness non-stop, 8-5. Then financial districts become ghost towns, you can see a tumbleweed rollin', can't you. I don't know about you, but I'm more productive after a nap. There's no sense in crammin' your ass so hard for hours on end, and then by the end of the day you're exhausted. I'd rather break it up, take some time off and then go back to the task at hand. But then again, that's just me. I'm used to my afternoon naps when I get home from work. Pass out for a bit, and then I'm good to go for the rest of the evening. I sometimes get out of hand and pass out for three hours, and then, lie now, I'm awake until 1AM. Not good.
But naps have a lot going for them. I don't see them being used anytime soon in American society, but until then, I can sneak a nap in here and there, just make sure that you get your alarm to go off in 15 minutes or so, lest you miss your meetings and simply miss your day. I've done it before, and luckily for my students, this worked out to be a good proposition. I wasn't cranky or sleepy during session.
So when I become president, you can expect a mandate that people take naps. Maybe it'll make us all nicer to each other. Or at least slow down this fast paced life of ours into something more humane.
That's my five cents. Cause with inflation and all, two cents just don't cut it.
Voodoo
Wednesday, August 08, 2001
How Blogging Works
Every day, life just sort of passes by, and I like to think of myself sometimes as a driver as I choose the route I want to take, and sometimes I fancy myself more a passenger, staring out the window and making notes in my head.
Sometimes, something will jump out at me, and I think to myself, I should write about that. Maybe it was something funny I saw, an overheard conversation I heard, a sign I saw posted. Other times, it's just something that I thought about for a few minutes, and it seemed interesting enough to write about. Other times I have a good idea about what to write about at a later date. I make a note and go on with my work. I do have a stash of things set aside should the moment arise that there is, literally, nothing to talk about. Prompts, if you will.
It's not easy to commit myself to writing, really, but I do know that so many do check the page on a regular basis, that I kind of have to make it a point to add something new, not for me, but for the reader, my ever present Voodoo Baby who no doubt is probably checking out my page to pass the time and see what mischief I got myself into today.
****
Today I found out that I am going to have to let some of my students go. That means that I can no longer offer them a position that they were probably expecting to return into in the fall. At least three of them. I am a little hurt by this, but it's the way of the world. We simply cannot afford to pay them this semester. Or probably even this year. This means that they are going to have to deal with more of the work, bear the brunt of it all. Which, in all likelihood means that I will also have to do my time doing what I would normally ask my students to do.
Summer for me has pretty much ended. I have students coming back to campus early. (Did you ever go back early? hell no, I say, my children, hell no!) The campus is starting to pick up traffic, and you can hear the voices of young people in the hallway now. It feels a little like you are being roused in your sleep by the fire engine. You hear it in the distance, quietly approaching, then as it nears, it attacks your eardrums and you shut your eyes from the noise and gradually, as it came, it goes away. Yes, that is the school year. It roars to life like a THX film and rattles your chest from out of nowhere.
I am not thrilled with working the next two weekends, but I am excited with the prospect of meeting the newbies and working with them. It's very very exciting. Then soon enough that excitement becomes hurry up and get to vacation already, I'm sick of youse.
I gave my boss my one-year notice. I've had it up to here with some of the things that are going on in the workplace, nothing that is too bad, but the sum of all parts is akin to a slow needle probing your soft underbelly. Time to git up and go. He thinks I'm joking, but if things don't let up, 5000, I'm going to blog for the rest of my life. From France.
I'm slowly drowning in my food coma, and ready to call it a night, even at 8:50PM. I need to get up and outta here before I pass out!
Man, a goodnight to you, and to all a goodnight.
Voodoo
Every day, life just sort of passes by, and I like to think of myself sometimes as a driver as I choose the route I want to take, and sometimes I fancy myself more a passenger, staring out the window and making notes in my head.
Sometimes, something will jump out at me, and I think to myself, I should write about that. Maybe it was something funny I saw, an overheard conversation I heard, a sign I saw posted. Other times, it's just something that I thought about for a few minutes, and it seemed interesting enough to write about. Other times I have a good idea about what to write about at a later date. I make a note and go on with my work. I do have a stash of things set aside should the moment arise that there is, literally, nothing to talk about. Prompts, if you will.
It's not easy to commit myself to writing, really, but I do know that so many do check the page on a regular basis, that I kind of have to make it a point to add something new, not for me, but for the reader, my ever present Voodoo Baby who no doubt is probably checking out my page to pass the time and see what mischief I got myself into today.
****
Today I found out that I am going to have to let some of my students go. That means that I can no longer offer them a position that they were probably expecting to return into in the fall. At least three of them. I am a little hurt by this, but it's the way of the world. We simply cannot afford to pay them this semester. Or probably even this year. This means that they are going to have to deal with more of the work, bear the brunt of it all. Which, in all likelihood means that I will also have to do my time doing what I would normally ask my students to do.
Summer for me has pretty much ended. I have students coming back to campus early. (Did you ever go back early? hell no, I say, my children, hell no!) The campus is starting to pick up traffic, and you can hear the voices of young people in the hallway now. It feels a little like you are being roused in your sleep by the fire engine. You hear it in the distance, quietly approaching, then as it nears, it attacks your eardrums and you shut your eyes from the noise and gradually, as it came, it goes away. Yes, that is the school year. It roars to life like a THX film and rattles your chest from out of nowhere.
I am not thrilled with working the next two weekends, but I am excited with the prospect of meeting the newbies and working with them. It's very very exciting. Then soon enough that excitement becomes hurry up and get to vacation already, I'm sick of youse.
I gave my boss my one-year notice. I've had it up to here with some of the things that are going on in the workplace, nothing that is too bad, but the sum of all parts is akin to a slow needle probing your soft underbelly. Time to git up and go. He thinks I'm joking, but if things don't let up, 5000, I'm going to blog for the rest of my life. From France.
I'm slowly drowning in my food coma, and ready to call it a night, even at 8:50PM. I need to get up and outta here before I pass out!
Man, a goodnight to you, and to all a goodnight.
Voodoo
Monday, August 06, 2001
The Voodoo Baby Directory
Some of you have been asking about who the Voodoo Babies are, so I posted this page: The Voodoo Baby Directory for your pleasure. Please take some time out to read it and get to know some of the characters that make my page come allllllllive.
Enjoy,
Voodoo
Some of you have been asking about who the Voodoo Babies are, so I posted this page: The Voodoo Baby Directory for your pleasure. Please take some time out to read it and get to know some of the characters that make my page come allllllllive.
Enjoy,
Voodoo
The Lost Art, or The Curse of Email
Ever since I was young, I have been a letter writer. I had pen pals, one in France, another in the Ile de la Reunion off the coast of Madagascar. I send letters to friends now and then. Especially if I was dating someone, he could expect a letter or two from me every so often.
I don't know exactly what it is, but I like to send things in the mail to people. Not pipe bombs or ratty underwear complete with short and curlies, but just a simple hello, how ya doin. As of late, I've had the want to write someone, but no one seems to be the letter writing type these days, and that's a bit distressing to me. And so I call it the Lost Art. Quite simply, the electronic age is upon us, and why sit and write a letter, complete with errors and a few day wait, when you could shoot off an email in less than five minutes and say the exact same thing?
I don't know, an email isn't something that you curl up and read a few times before you go to bed. I mean, it's cute and all, the blinky letters and shit, but come on. Maybe, as I have been accused, I am much more of the diehard romantic type that likes to read those kinds of things in a day and age when paper mail is seemingly obsolete. Paper mail these days requires a return letter that's accompanied by a fat check. Ouch, where did all my cash flow go...
People that take the time to write letters really impress me, not because they are akin to myself, but because they have chosen to take some time to draft a letter that is more personal, more intimate, shall we say? By choosing to write a letter, I can honestly tell you that I set aside some time in my day to put some thoughts to paper, and I might even have to do a few drafts before I get the words right. It's that kind of thoughtfulness that I would like to believe goes into letters these days, an honest correspondence between people. It's always with a little glee that I find a card or letter in the mail. These days, for whatever reason those letters aren't as frequent. Usually I just get email, and while that is sweet enough, complete with wicked nasty .mpgs or .gifs attached, thank you very much, it's just not all there.
So I've been searching around, trying to find someone or someones to write to, sort of to fill a small void in my life, but also to find connection with another person who is into letter writing as much as I am. So my search continues, not for that 'special' someone. I'm not in it to try and find some dude who wants to swap porno stories, I can just go visit Mista J and have him tell me a Crazy Horse Too tale. If you're down, and want to do a postcard swap, email me, and let's see what happens...
But in a meanwhile, imagine your feelings when you get a card from someone in the mail, what that thrill is like, and pass that onto someone, maybe they'll write you back, maybe they won't, but damn, don't it feel good to know someone took the time to write you a letter.
This is the fastest way to the Voodoo Heart.
voodoo
Ever since I was young, I have been a letter writer. I had pen pals, one in France, another in the Ile de la Reunion off the coast of Madagascar. I send letters to friends now and then. Especially if I was dating someone, he could expect a letter or two from me every so often.
I don't know exactly what it is, but I like to send things in the mail to people. Not pipe bombs or ratty underwear complete with short and curlies, but just a simple hello, how ya doin. As of late, I've had the want to write someone, but no one seems to be the letter writing type these days, and that's a bit distressing to me. And so I call it the Lost Art. Quite simply, the electronic age is upon us, and why sit and write a letter, complete with errors and a few day wait, when you could shoot off an email in less than five minutes and say the exact same thing?
I don't know, an email isn't something that you curl up and read a few times before you go to bed. I mean, it's cute and all, the blinky letters and shit, but come on. Maybe, as I have been accused, I am much more of the diehard romantic type that likes to read those kinds of things in a day and age when paper mail is seemingly obsolete. Paper mail these days requires a return letter that's accompanied by a fat check. Ouch, where did all my cash flow go...
People that take the time to write letters really impress me, not because they are akin to myself, but because they have chosen to take some time to draft a letter that is more personal, more intimate, shall we say? By choosing to write a letter, I can honestly tell you that I set aside some time in my day to put some thoughts to paper, and I might even have to do a few drafts before I get the words right. It's that kind of thoughtfulness that I would like to believe goes into letters these days, an honest correspondence between people. It's always with a little glee that I find a card or letter in the mail. These days, for whatever reason those letters aren't as frequent. Usually I just get email, and while that is sweet enough, complete with wicked nasty .mpgs or .gifs attached, thank you very much, it's just not all there.
So I've been searching around, trying to find someone or someones to write to, sort of to fill a small void in my life, but also to find connection with another person who is into letter writing as much as I am. So my search continues, not for that 'special' someone. I'm not in it to try and find some dude who wants to swap porno stories, I can just go visit Mista J and have him tell me a Crazy Horse Too tale. If you're down, and want to do a postcard swap, email me, and let's see what happens...
But in a meanwhile, imagine your feelings when you get a card from someone in the mail, what that thrill is like, and pass that onto someone, maybe they'll write you back, maybe they won't, but damn, don't it feel good to know someone took the time to write you a letter.
This is the fastest way to the Voodoo Heart.
voodoo
Beats Rhymes N Life
Check out the Voodoolicious Beats. I just added some new songs, so enjoy to your hearts' content.
All for your aural pleasure.
Damn skippy baby boo, get yo' groove on.
Voodoo
PS: if you're ever in need for some Voodoolisms, the link 'Shake Whatcho Mama Gave Ya" on your left, will take you there.
Check out the Voodoolicious Beats. I just added some new songs, so enjoy to your hearts' content.
All for your aural pleasure.
Damn skippy baby boo, get yo' groove on.
Voodoo
PS: if you're ever in need for some Voodoolisms, the link 'Shake Whatcho Mama Gave Ya" on your left, will take you there.
Sunday, August 05, 2001
Monkeys Wreak Havoc on Consciousness
I hate zoos. Pretty animals and all, but I just can't get into that speech they give about "all animals are captive, yet placed in environments similar to the conditions from which they were removed in the wild." Sure. Tell that to the lions in the SF Zoo who are in a simulated natural environment that measures about 50 feet square. Oh yah, and that simulated natural fog.
It's an interesting debate about animals in captivity, particularly animals who are far better off in the wild. Visiting a zoo is somewhat morbid in its intention, us as the gawking visitors and staring at the soulless eyes of some llama. Discover Channel is my preferred method of viewing animals, at least it's more humane. No snatchin' babies, no big feathered dart stickin' outta some poor animal's ass while its eyes roll around in its head.
Speaking of which, I just saw Planet of the Apes, or Planet de los Changos, and I had to smirk to myself as I thought of Jane Goodall's commentary about the movie that went something like this: "I think it's a nice juxtaposition of human and ape, and if we see it from this perspective, it might teach us a little more about how to treat animals." For freakin' sure, Jane Baby, you got it goin' on. If you haven't seen it yet, don't go expecting to see Cornelius and his lot, it's a fancy schmancy retelling of the story (Hollywood's way of bringing us the same shit twice) that has a different twist to it. I liked it a lot, and despite the gratuitous T&A chick in the movie (utterly useless, but a Hollywood necessity) it was a thinking movie.
Mark Wahlberg looks much finer in this movie than he did in real life, but you gotta give it up to a man who singlehandedly leads a revolt in a strange planet against talking apes (there is a fine line between monkey and ape I learned) and survives in the jungle WITHOUT having to shave and never having "I Just Saved the Universe" hair.
Thanks to the World of Curls and Bouncy Balls and Black Socks for their company. It's always a pleasure to hang with these two, particularly when it comes to peepin' the menfolk.
BOW YOUR HEAD! sayeth the big ape.
GET TO BED! sayeth the Voodoo
Catch you on the other side of midnight.
voodoo
I hate zoos. Pretty animals and all, but I just can't get into that speech they give about "all animals are captive, yet placed in environments similar to the conditions from which they were removed in the wild." Sure. Tell that to the lions in the SF Zoo who are in a simulated natural environment that measures about 50 feet square. Oh yah, and that simulated natural fog.
It's an interesting debate about animals in captivity, particularly animals who are far better off in the wild. Visiting a zoo is somewhat morbid in its intention, us as the gawking visitors and staring at the soulless eyes of some llama. Discover Channel is my preferred method of viewing animals, at least it's more humane. No snatchin' babies, no big feathered dart stickin' outta some poor animal's ass while its eyes roll around in its head.
Speaking of which, I just saw Planet of the Apes, or Planet de los Changos, and I had to smirk to myself as I thought of Jane Goodall's commentary about the movie that went something like this: "I think it's a nice juxtaposition of human and ape, and if we see it from this perspective, it might teach us a little more about how to treat animals." For freakin' sure, Jane Baby, you got it goin' on. If you haven't seen it yet, don't go expecting to see Cornelius and his lot, it's a fancy schmancy retelling of the story (Hollywood's way of bringing us the same shit twice) that has a different twist to it. I liked it a lot, and despite the gratuitous T&A chick in the movie (utterly useless, but a Hollywood necessity) it was a thinking movie.
Mark Wahlberg looks much finer in this movie than he did in real life, but you gotta give it up to a man who singlehandedly leads a revolt in a strange planet against talking apes (there is a fine line between monkey and ape I learned) and survives in the jungle WITHOUT having to shave and never having "I Just Saved the Universe" hair.
Thanks to the World of Curls and Bouncy Balls and Black Socks for their company. It's always a pleasure to hang with these two, particularly when it comes to peepin' the menfolk.
BOW YOUR HEAD! sayeth the big ape.
GET TO BED! sayeth the Voodoo
Catch you on the other side of midnight.
voodoo
Oh My God
I know it's fake, but someone sure did put a lot of work into this page. Under 17 and most Humans Not Recommended
Voodoo
I know it's fake, but someone sure did put a lot of work into this page. Under 17 and most Humans Not Recommended
Voodoo
Friday, August 03, 2001
Check Out My Guns
It goes without saying that once a prepubescent girl realizes that her breasts are going to growth forth as she gets older, she spends almost every damn day thinking about size, appearance, and the myriads of men who will flock to her because she’s got a rack or those that will shun her because she is rack-free. I’m about to launch into boobage, my Voodoo Babies, so I best warn those of you who have problems with breast talk. Sign off now! Go read Nekkid Barrel Man’s page or something. No breast talk there. No talk talk there, now that I think of it.
Ever since childhood, the obsession about chest size has become an issue for me. In huddled corners with the rest of my classmates, we discussed the virtues of wearing a bra. Do you have one? Where did you get it? What kind was it? Was it cute? Did your mom pick it out for you? We were burgeoning women; this was not a time to take lightly. We would pick out the other girls in the schoolyard, and we could tell who had a bra by looking at their backs. The tell-tale sign of the white inch-thick strap underneath the standard white shirt told us all we needed to know. We stared jealously at them, then went home to stare at our flat chests, as if to will them into being.
Going to J.C. Penney to buy a bra was like going out to buy a car. So many options. So many styles. So many people watching me pick out the most intimates of intimates! And the one who’s paying for it is my mom! The bras for tykes such as myself came in little pink boxes and cute little girls with barely no chest smiling as if to say, “I’ve made it. I am a woman. Boys love me. I got hooters. You don’t.” I grappled with the boxes, unsure of my size or even of the drama that would befall me now that I had a babyrack. But sure enough, when I got my very first bra, I smiled that smile of knowledge, power, and no fear. I, too, had breasts. It used to be that I would walk by the Lingerie/Foundations section and glare at the space into which I was not allowed....But now, I had the Bra Pass. Please enter at will.
Suffice it to say, I was not the only one who noticed. I got grabbed by my boy classmates, and surprisingly, I also got put on detention. I got followed home by would-be boob grabbers. This new found power was not quite what I had expected. I wasn’t even sure I wanted breasts after those trying times. High school was better, as I went to an all-girl’s school. I found myself surrounded by other women who were trying to figure out their new power. Some who had discovered their power were revered as demi-goddesses, but they were also “those hoochies who got around.” I think part of the reason we bitched them was because we wanted so desperately wanted to be like them.
Having a breast size that is, shall we say, healthy, can be a blessing but also a curse. Voodoo Mom always insists that I’m buying the wrong size for myself. Be that as it may, I hate to say I can’t fit into those little sizes she’s always mentioning. That’s why I go bra shopping solo. I get to debate: the I feel really pretty bra, the functional bra, bra that’s only going to stay on as long as he can stand it, the bra that is so comfortable but really ugly…the list goes on and on. But having, as I mentioned a larger size limits the sexual nature of bras. The bigger you are, the more heinous these things become. Hello, do you have size ___? Why yes, she whispers, come with me downstairs to the bra dungeon. It’s a liability in ways to have, what one of my ex boyfriends used to call “the Bam and the Pow.” You don’t feel sexy in big bras. You feel like a nursing sow. Not like any of my ex’s ever complained, but in the back of my mind it’s always there.
So why this tirade on bra drama?
I went to Nordstrom’s last night to acquire a new bra, and I asked about this one bra I bought there a few months ago. It didn’t feel right, so I asked about getting sized. Now, girls, if you’re going to get sized, go to Nordstroms, they at least know what they’re doing. I used to work at Nordy’s (that’s what those of us who go there way too much call it), and they train the shit out of you. Unlike Macy’s where they couldn’t tell you what size you were if you held it out in front of their faces. She measured me and informed me that I was a ___. (Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.) It nearly floored me. I was surprised that she would give me that size, thinking that I was a certain size for the last few years.
I felt kind of dizzy. An increase is never really good. Or is it? Some women wear their bra sizes like a Badge of Boob Honor. I do, more as a joke, but hey, a ___ is nothing to laugh at either. That size screams out, “BAM!” if dressed accordingly. Hmmm. I walked away laughing to myself with the thought that I have been wearing the wrong size bra for a few years. You’d think I’d notice the slight discomfort, but as I said earlier, one you’ve reached your ideal size, then you don’t want to think you’d either shrink or expand, either way. As a younger Voodoo, I used to think girls with this size were usually not “good girls.” Hm.
Physical beauty is something that I don’t hold too much stock in, but at times like this I can see how much it’s impacted the way in which I see myself. It’s a dangerous thing, to feel that your worth is so innately tied to how you think you look. Yet, strangely enough, that’s the position that I see many of my peers holding. And hold so steadfastly that dangerous diets and routines are a sufficient means to obtain a beautiful image there fore a beautiful self. This goes for the guys as well. As handsome as you are, as physically manly man as you are, if you don’t work out your brain muscle, then you can’t really do anything for me.
But nice glutes are a plus.
Something for you all to think about…those and my newly crowned 36D’s.
Voodoo
It goes without saying that once a prepubescent girl realizes that her breasts are going to growth forth as she gets older, she spends almost every damn day thinking about size, appearance, and the myriads of men who will flock to her because she’s got a rack or those that will shun her because she is rack-free. I’m about to launch into boobage, my Voodoo Babies, so I best warn those of you who have problems with breast talk. Sign off now! Go read Nekkid Barrel Man’s page or something. No breast talk there. No talk talk there, now that I think of it.
Ever since childhood, the obsession about chest size has become an issue for me. In huddled corners with the rest of my classmates, we discussed the virtues of wearing a bra. Do you have one? Where did you get it? What kind was it? Was it cute? Did your mom pick it out for you? We were burgeoning women; this was not a time to take lightly. We would pick out the other girls in the schoolyard, and we could tell who had a bra by looking at their backs. The tell-tale sign of the white inch-thick strap underneath the standard white shirt told us all we needed to know. We stared jealously at them, then went home to stare at our flat chests, as if to will them into being.
Going to J.C. Penney to buy a bra was like going out to buy a car. So many options. So many styles. So many people watching me pick out the most intimates of intimates! And the one who’s paying for it is my mom! The bras for tykes such as myself came in little pink boxes and cute little girls with barely no chest smiling as if to say, “I’ve made it. I am a woman. Boys love me. I got hooters. You don’t.” I grappled with the boxes, unsure of my size or even of the drama that would befall me now that I had a babyrack. But sure enough, when I got my very first bra, I smiled that smile of knowledge, power, and no fear. I, too, had breasts. It used to be that I would walk by the Lingerie/Foundations section and glare at the space into which I was not allowed....But now, I had the Bra Pass. Please enter at will.
Suffice it to say, I was not the only one who noticed. I got grabbed by my boy classmates, and surprisingly, I also got put on detention. I got followed home by would-be boob grabbers. This new found power was not quite what I had expected. I wasn’t even sure I wanted breasts after those trying times. High school was better, as I went to an all-girl’s school. I found myself surrounded by other women who were trying to figure out their new power. Some who had discovered their power were revered as demi-goddesses, but they were also “those hoochies who got around.” I think part of the reason we bitched them was because we wanted so desperately wanted to be like them.
Having a breast size that is, shall we say, healthy, can be a blessing but also a curse. Voodoo Mom always insists that I’m buying the wrong size for myself. Be that as it may, I hate to say I can’t fit into those little sizes she’s always mentioning. That’s why I go bra shopping solo. I get to debate: the I feel really pretty bra, the functional bra, bra that’s only going to stay on as long as he can stand it, the bra that is so comfortable but really ugly…the list goes on and on. But having, as I mentioned a larger size limits the sexual nature of bras. The bigger you are, the more heinous these things become. Hello, do you have size ___? Why yes, she whispers, come with me downstairs to the bra dungeon. It’s a liability in ways to have, what one of my ex boyfriends used to call “the Bam and the Pow.” You don’t feel sexy in big bras. You feel like a nursing sow. Not like any of my ex’s ever complained, but in the back of my mind it’s always there.
So why this tirade on bra drama?
I went to Nordstrom’s last night to acquire a new bra, and I asked about this one bra I bought there a few months ago. It didn’t feel right, so I asked about getting sized. Now, girls, if you’re going to get sized, go to Nordstroms, they at least know what they’re doing. I used to work at Nordy’s (that’s what those of us who go there way too much call it), and they train the shit out of you. Unlike Macy’s where they couldn’t tell you what size you were if you held it out in front of their faces. She measured me and informed me that I was a ___. (Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.) It nearly floored me. I was surprised that she would give me that size, thinking that I was a certain size for the last few years.
I felt kind of dizzy. An increase is never really good. Or is it? Some women wear their bra sizes like a Badge of Boob Honor. I do, more as a joke, but hey, a ___ is nothing to laugh at either. That size screams out, “BAM!” if dressed accordingly. Hmmm. I walked away laughing to myself with the thought that I have been wearing the wrong size bra for a few years. You’d think I’d notice the slight discomfort, but as I said earlier, one you’ve reached your ideal size, then you don’t want to think you’d either shrink or expand, either way. As a younger Voodoo, I used to think girls with this size were usually not “good girls.” Hm.
Physical beauty is something that I don’t hold too much stock in, but at times like this I can see how much it’s impacted the way in which I see myself. It’s a dangerous thing, to feel that your worth is so innately tied to how you think you look. Yet, strangely enough, that’s the position that I see many of my peers holding. And hold so steadfastly that dangerous diets and routines are a sufficient means to obtain a beautiful image there fore a beautiful self. This goes for the guys as well. As handsome as you are, as physically manly man as you are, if you don’t work out your brain muscle, then you can’t really do anything for me.
But nice glutes are a plus.
Something for you all to think about…those and my newly crowned 36D’s.
Voodoo
Thursday, August 02, 2001
My Faith in Men
It's no big secret that the men in my life have been, well, for lack of a better word, chickenshitmuthafuckinbastards. I am not going to just blame them for my drama, because although I am virtually perfect in every way, shape and form, I got some baggage that will put Alexis Colby to shame. I have to admit that as of late, even though there is NO lack of men in my life, I repeat NO lack of men, the selection has been not as good as I would like.
Kind of like when you go to the store and there is a pile of oranges, which you absolutely LOVE, but they're all nasty and bruised up, and DON'T CALL YOU BACK WHEN YOU WANT THEM TO...oh, sorry about that.
At any rate, I'm always checking out the selection that's laid out before me, picking through just to see what's out there. No doubt, there are some beautiful men out there, but they all have boyfriends already. There are some wonderful men, but those are currently not available for anything more than peepage. Is it me, or have you noticed that the cool people you'd love to date are stuck with people who are best described by the terms: garden tool? And I'm not talking about a lawn mower either, Voodoo Smartypants.
But every now and then you meet some guys who are just cool, not perfect, because as you know, only I can be perfect, and you just want to chill with them. Not try to knock their boots or throw your tongue down their throats and tickle their uvula. Although, as I confessed to the Drunken Master, I wouldn't throw 'em outta the house if they tried...But at any rate, every now and then you meet a man or men, in my case, that just restores your faith in men. Just so my manly men readers don't feel out of place, you know what I mean, you meet a girl who is just so down you don't even know what to do? Not down to throw down, that's different. Geez. Men!
So last night I hung out with World of Curls for her birfday party, and later on in the evening, I hung out with her and her cousins, The So-Called Shy One and the Closet Wifebeater. Granted, I was not there to try to crackalate at anyone, because that's not my game, (let them flock to me, I say) but it certainly helps to know that there are cool guys out there. As of late, I was pretty much feeling pessimistic about the whole man situation until last night.
Brothers, I need to let you know, all it takes is ONE MAN to mess it up for the rest of you out there. So if you ever, ever, EVER wonder why a girl won't give you play don't blame us or go around callin' us frigid, it's because of one brother who just salted your game. May be the last guy she was with, may be another guy from back in the day, but as soon as you unfurl your game, all that registers is the way in which you're similar to that guy, and the probability that you will be exactly the same.
I hate to admit that, but someone had to tell you. Ask R. Kelly: One Man. And this is why so many of the good men just feel like they get NO love: sing sweet as you might, she'll come around when she damn well feels like it. This isn't your fault, Voodoo Boyfriends, it really isn't. It's that triflin' brother's fault.
And you know who you are.
But my faith is again restored, life is good, and I know he's out there. Somewhere.
Back to my original faith in men, I must go back to work, and back to admiring the scores of wonderful guys who are out there. And I'm sure some of my readers are just as wonderful.
Peas, love, and breakin' ya off,
Voodoo
Props and Voodoo Love to Bouncy Balls and Black Socks, The Man Stealer and The Sisters.
It's no big secret that the men in my life have been, well, for lack of a better word, chickenshitmuthafuckinbastards. I am not going to just blame them for my drama, because although I am virtually perfect in every way, shape and form, I got some baggage that will put Alexis Colby to shame. I have to admit that as of late, even though there is NO lack of men in my life, I repeat NO lack of men, the selection has been not as good as I would like.
Kind of like when you go to the store and there is a pile of oranges, which you absolutely LOVE, but they're all nasty and bruised up, and DON'T CALL YOU BACK WHEN YOU WANT THEM TO...oh, sorry about that.
At any rate, I'm always checking out the selection that's laid out before me, picking through just to see what's out there. No doubt, there are some beautiful men out there, but they all have boyfriends already. There are some wonderful men, but those are currently not available for anything more than peepage. Is it me, or have you noticed that the cool people you'd love to date are stuck with people who are best described by the terms: garden tool? And I'm not talking about a lawn mower either, Voodoo Smartypants.
But every now and then you meet some guys who are just cool, not perfect, because as you know, only I can be perfect, and you just want to chill with them. Not try to knock their boots or throw your tongue down their throats and tickle their uvula. Although, as I confessed to the Drunken Master, I wouldn't throw 'em outta the house if they tried...But at any rate, every now and then you meet a man or men, in my case, that just restores your faith in men. Just so my manly men readers don't feel out of place, you know what I mean, you meet a girl who is just so down you don't even know what to do? Not down to throw down, that's different. Geez. Men!
So last night I hung out with World of Curls for her birfday party, and later on in the evening, I hung out with her and her cousins, The So-Called Shy One and the Closet Wifebeater. Granted, I was not there to try to crackalate at anyone, because that's not my game, (let them flock to me, I say) but it certainly helps to know that there are cool guys out there. As of late, I was pretty much feeling pessimistic about the whole man situation until last night.
Brothers, I need to let you know, all it takes is ONE MAN to mess it up for the rest of you out there. So if you ever, ever, EVER wonder why a girl won't give you play don't blame us or go around callin' us frigid, it's because of one brother who just salted your game. May be the last guy she was with, may be another guy from back in the day, but as soon as you unfurl your game, all that registers is the way in which you're similar to that guy, and the probability that you will be exactly the same.
I hate to admit that, but someone had to tell you. Ask R. Kelly: One Man. And this is why so many of the good men just feel like they get NO love: sing sweet as you might, she'll come around when she damn well feels like it. This isn't your fault, Voodoo Boyfriends, it really isn't. It's that triflin' brother's fault.
And you know who you are.
But my faith is again restored, life is good, and I know he's out there. Somewhere.
Back to my original faith in men, I must go back to work, and back to admiring the scores of wonderful guys who are out there. And I'm sure some of my readers are just as wonderful.
Peas, love, and breakin' ya off,
Voodoo
Props and Voodoo Love to Bouncy Balls and Black Socks, The Man Stealer and The Sisters.
Wednesday, August 01, 2001
The Boys of Summer
I love August. It's one of the most beautiful times of the year. FYI, my chirren, it's not because SF has such beautiful weather out here. I don't know what it means to change seasons. We usually have only one season. Winter.
It's beautiful because it's when football and baseball collide. It's when soccer boys are kickin' it at my school. It's freakin' ESPN heaven. FOX Sports Nirvana. Sports Center Alleluia. Bow down to the altars of Saint Stuart Scott. Saint Rich Eisen. And all those other wonderful wonderful sports announcers that repeat shows four or five times a day. God love 'em.
I like sports not only because for the most part, the athletes really do it for me, no. It's because I admire athletes as a whole, ugly or not, they have an almost unhealthy obsession for playing sports. They work out, they struggle, they sweat up a storm. Pull up their shirts when they make a goal, I'm in freakin' love, baby. I love strategy and watching the game unfold. I dig getting stressed out if my team is going to pull a quick one and win in the bottom of the ninth.
But in August, every channel has some sport splashing across the screen, and I drool at the prospect of watching two teams battle it out. Picture in picture was made for girls like me. Watch two sports. Maybe Food Network if Iron Chef or Emeril is on. At any rate, welcome August, I missed you lots.
Now gimme my remote.
Voodoo
I love August. It's one of the most beautiful times of the year. FYI, my chirren, it's not because SF has such beautiful weather out here. I don't know what it means to change seasons. We usually have only one season. Winter.
It's beautiful because it's when football and baseball collide. It's when soccer boys are kickin' it at my school. It's freakin' ESPN heaven. FOX Sports Nirvana. Sports Center Alleluia. Bow down to the altars of Saint Stuart Scott. Saint Rich Eisen. And all those other wonderful wonderful sports announcers that repeat shows four or five times a day. God love 'em.
I like sports not only because for the most part, the athletes really do it for me, no. It's because I admire athletes as a whole, ugly or not, they have an almost unhealthy obsession for playing sports. They work out, they struggle, they sweat up a storm. Pull up their shirts when they make a goal, I'm in freakin' love, baby. I love strategy and watching the game unfold. I dig getting stressed out if my team is going to pull a quick one and win in the bottom of the ninth.
But in August, every channel has some sport splashing across the screen, and I drool at the prospect of watching two teams battle it out. Picture in picture was made for girls like me. Watch two sports. Maybe Food Network if Iron Chef or Emeril is on. At any rate, welcome August, I missed you lots.
Now gimme my remote.
Voodoo
Happy Birthday Wishes
Belated wishes to the Boy Wonder, who turned 27 the day after I turned 31. And very happy wishes to the World of Curls who also turns 27 today!
I love birthdays, but what I love more are the people who call you and say happy birthday...the cards, the flowers, the sex...Oops, cancel that last one. Well...
At any rate, happy birthday to my lovelies!
I have moved out of the Voodoo Crib and am finally getting settled. Living out of boxes sucks, especially when you're trying to figure out what to wear. Most of my gear is festering in boxes. This includes my make-up, most of my zapatos, and my work gear. Oh crap.
I have a new phone number, but alas, I have yet to plug in my phone. Sad, huh. Oh well, not like anyone CALLED ME! *sniff* Okay kids, back to work, and I'll gitwitcha later.
Voodoo
Belated wishes to the Boy Wonder, who turned 27 the day after I turned 31. And very happy wishes to the World of Curls who also turns 27 today!
I love birthdays, but what I love more are the people who call you and say happy birthday...the cards, the flowers, the sex...Oops, cancel that last one. Well...
At any rate, happy birthday to my lovelies!
I have moved out of the Voodoo Crib and am finally getting settled. Living out of boxes sucks, especially when you're trying to figure out what to wear. Most of my gear is festering in boxes. This includes my make-up, most of my zapatos, and my work gear. Oh crap.
I have a new phone number, but alas, I have yet to plug in my phone. Sad, huh. Oh well, not like anyone CALLED ME! *sniff* Okay kids, back to work, and I'll gitwitcha later.
Voodoo
I like long walks, especially when they're taken by people who annoy me. ~Fred Allen
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